r e f r a i n
by samantha-darling
Summary: nick thinks; jess doesn't talk. *spoilers for 2x20 Chicago*


_When nightmares come, _

_keep you awake,_

_baby close your eyes,_

_I'll take the weight._

_If I go to speak,_

_I will refrain,_

_and be the song,_

_just be the song. _

_- Be the Song, Foy Vance_

* * *

That night, when the lights go out, when his friends and family go to sleep, when the orange sodium street lights filter between his blinds and his curtains, Nick Miller lies awake on a bed he hasn't slept in for almost ten years and thinks about his life. It's a terrible time to think, really. Tomorrow, he's supposed to be planning his father's funeral, something he didn't think he'd be doing this soon in his life. He tries to think about what it takes to plan a funeral, and not coming to any great conclusions, he continues to reflect on his current situation. Tomorrow, he's supposed to be planning his father's funeral.

The El rumbles close by and soon enough the train is barreling past. It shakes the stuff on his shelves and his desk, left over trinkets his mom arranged nice and neat in case anyone ever came over and somehow had to hunker down in his room. There's the baseball he caught at Wrigley Field and the piece of concrete that nearly crushed his brother's skull (it was before they installed the nets). There's also the little figurines of the Sears Tower and the Hancock Building that his uncle got for him for his fifth birthday, little landmarks of Chicago that were so awe-inspiring at that age. After awhile, there wasn't any wonder in them anymore. He'd tool around the Loop with his high school buddies, walking right underneath the towering skyscrapers without a second glance. Just another building in a city of buildings.

But Jess had gasped when she saw the skyline. It was her first time in Chicago, she quietly gushed. Forgetting they were in a cab, she leaped over his lap to look out the window. Her face remained plastered against the glass until downtown was out of sight and they were firmly entrenched in the suburbs. Even then, shifting back onto her side of the taxi, she looked so surprised and delighted that he could only smile and watch her for the rest of the ride.

The memory makes him smile and he wistfully glances over at the figurine. It was the only time since he'd gotten the phone call from his mom that his stomach had felt somewhat settled. Count on Jess to part the clouds and bring the sunshine. His mouth twists when he thinks about her, about his mother's clipped response to her offering of sympathy, and her subsequent banishment to the living room with Aunt Rosie. He remembers passing by, overhearing her and Winston as they talked in low tones while watching a basketball game. Schmidt was in the dining room, helping clean up the mess from dinner. Mom was engaging in short conversation as best as she could, elbow deep in dishes and leftovers. As always, she made too much. He smiled, leaned up against the doorframe, and tried to act like he wasn't listening to their words as much as the game. But Jess saw him. She always saw him. And she smiled, which was enough for him, at the moment.

When he took her up to bed, she asked again if it was okay for her to stay there. Winston and Schmidt were staying at his mother's, just down the block, and Nick offered her the guest bedroom. It also doubled as his mother's sewing room, but the bed was still made and he figured a sewing machine would make Jess feel right at home. He assured her as best he could that she was welcome and he would be just next door if she needed anything. But the look on her face when she closed the door let him know he hadn't quite done the job well enough.

Who could blame her? The Millers were intimidating, even if you were a Miller. He sighs and rubs his eyes. It seems like years have passed since he decided he was going to sleep, and yet he wasn't sleeping. He was thinking. Nothing good ever came of thinking. It's what got him to drop out of law school. It's what convinced him to get a job as a bartender. It's the thing that got him into trouble with Caroline, really with any of the girls that he got involved with. And it's what reminds him that his father is dead and he never really got the kind of closure he'd thought he'd get. Just a pair of pants.

His mom always said he was better off not expecting anything from Walt. Not Dad. Walt, because Dad implied something Walt wasn't. Walt did not go to baseball games unless he was scalping tickets. He didn't visit the Loop unless he had a brand new box of knock-off souvenirs to sell to unsuspecting tourists. He did not attend school functions, he did not come to sports games. He may have shown up at a graduation or two, but he'd never let you know. Nick thinks he saw him at his high school ceremony, hiding behind a bleacher, but it was impossible to tell. His mother wouldn't say either. She talked about Walt sparingly. Nick never knew if it was for his and his brother's benefit, or for her own.

Giving up on sleep temporarily, he moves out of his bed and pulls out his desk chair. It still squeaks when he sits on it. He reaches up and flips on the lamp, filling the space with yellow light. There's a birthday card in his drawer, buried beneath old receipts, hidden condoms, and bits of pencil and crayon. He finds it just where he eft it, in the back right corner, and pulls it out as if its made of glass. It doesn't look like much. Plain, small, with frayed corners, the card shows a little dog drooling over a piece of birthday cake. Nick shakes his head fondly and opens it, reading the standard little blurb about birthdays and good boys. The printed type isn't what he's looking for. Instead, its the rough, linear signature. His father's signature. It was the only card he had ever gotten and it was given with as much trepidation as it was received. Nick shuts his eyes and sees the envelope on the table, propped against the napkin holder after all the presents had been opened and sorted. He pretends not to notice Walt hiding in the hallway, watching, waiting to see if he'll take it and open it. As soon as he does, Walt's gone.

The knock on the door is so quiet he almost doesn't hear it. He waits for a moment, and when he hears it again, accompanied by an equally quiet voice saying his name, he throws the card haphazardly back into the drawer and slams it closed. He contemplates leaving the light on until he realizes his eyes are a little moist from the dust. He hadn't been crying. Nick Miller doesn't cry easily, not really. He doesn't want to give any one the wrong impression. So he shuts it off before padding over to the door (not before stubbing his toe on his bed frame) and opens it to find a small looking Jess hovering on the stoop. She's shuffling from foot to foot and picking at her scalp beneath a curtain of dark hair, like she's nervous.

"Hey." She whispers.

"Hey."Without another word, he opens the door further and lets her in, because he just knows that's what she's here for. She comes in quickly, glancing down the hall at his mother's room like they're teenagers about to be caught doing something they shouldn't be. The thought almost makes him smile. Almost. By the time he's closed the door, she's sitting on his bed, just another silhouette in a shaded room.

"Can't sleep?" She asks like she knows what he was doing. It unnerves him. He shakes his head quickly before he realizes she can't see him in all the darkness.

"Uh, no. Not really. You?"

"Not really." They're encompassed in the white noise of the neighborhood, the stillness of the house, and he rocks a bit on his feet to try and dispel some of the awkwardness creeping in between them."I'm not used to elevated trains and car alarms. Well, maybe car alarms, knowing our neighborhood. And its kind of cold. Why is it so cold? It's nearly April." She rambles and he finds it oddly comforting not to be mired in silence and contemplation.

"Its Chicago. It's cold nine months out of the year." Nick explains. He tries to hide the slight amusement in his voice. He sees the outline of her arms fly up in mock frustration.

"I'm from Oregon, I know the meaning of an extended winter, but this is nuts. And...well..." She mysteriously trails off, which is either a good thing or a bad thing. When Jess runs out of words, watch out. Unexpectedly, she pats the mattress beside her, smacking the down comforter loud enough that it echoes.

"Jess, I-"

"Come on."

"I'm not in the mood to talk."

"No talking." She promises, sounding earnest. Nick stops. It's the truth, he really doesn't feel like talking. He doesn't want her to try and make him feel better. He doesn't want to answer questions about his dad. He wants to go to bed, but that's proving to be easier said than done. Most of all, he doesn't want her to know how conflicted he's feeling, because he can't stand the idea of her feeling sorry for him once again.

"Jess-"

"No talking, Nick. Not tonight. I pinky swear." Any other time, the oath might have sounded ridiculous, but tonight he's willing to entertain her. Her presence is enough to at least slow the speed in which his thoughts are racing around his brain. He actually has something else to focus on other than the hollow feeling in his stomach. Encircling his smallest finger around hers, he pads over to the mattress and plops down beside her. Almost in unison, they lean back at the waists, letting their top halves pillow into the comforter and their feet dangle over the carpet. They lay inches from each other, but not touching.

They haven't casually touched in weeks, not since he had laid a hand on her knee and looked into her eyes while trapped behind the Iron Curtain. Not since _The Kiss_. He's thinking about something else now. Not Walt, but about them, and the strange twists their lives had taken over the last few weeks. So they had kissed and it was amazing, despite the denial coming out of both of their mouths. He didn't know he was capable of kissing a woman like that. And then things had gotten weird. In the following nights he found himself _missing_ her. Nick missed the way they'd have breakfast together, how they'd see each other off to their respective jobs, how she'd leave her leftovers in the microwave for when he got home from the bar. He missed talking to her, joking with her, without feeling like they were both constantly trying to read the other one.

They'd awkwardly gone their separate ways. She'd taken off at light speed into the arms of an emotional football player (which he gleefully laughed at when it blew up in her face that very night) and he'd rushed into having sex with his boss' daughter because it seemed like the right thing to do. She wanted to, and she wasn't Jess so she was safe. The only thing he felt while he moved above her and in her was pure physical attraction. He had a beautiful woman in his bed. Beyond that, she would be gone in the morning and he wouldn't have to worry about ruining anything because there was nothing to ruin. Jess wasn't supposed to find out. It was going to be his dirty little secret, his very own nugget of guilt that would help him end the weirdness. Of course, it wasn't his greatest idea, and he had ended up hurting her. She played it off in true form, laughing, but he knew her. He knew that look on her face, the glassy veil her eyes took on as she looked everywhere but at him. And then she was gone and he was chasing her back to the loft like his very life depended on catching her. Maybe it did.

Thankfully, she had forgotten her keys inside and he caught her in a heap outside the door to Apartment 4D, curled into a ball, fists defeatedly pounding on the metal as if some magical force would unlock it from the inside. They ended up having a remarkably candid conversation in the hallway, though Jess needed some convincing. There was a little bit of yelling, a few more tears, and finally, perhaps unexpectedly, an agreement. Nick's going to take her to dinner. He doesn't promise anything. Neither does she. They don't label it a date but maybe they're both thinking it. He was just about to clarify that fact when his phone rang. Like a bubble being popped with a needle, her face went blank. He assumed she thought it was Shane, but it wasn't. He let her into the apartment, only half listening to his mom, when he heard her say something he didn't quite catch. Jess had disappeared into the bathroom. He looked for her in his shock, but not finding her, told his mother he'd be home soon and hung up. The night seemed to shrink. Any forward progress he had made with Jess seemed trivial and he hated that because it wasn't trivial. A few minutes later, Jess bounded out from the toilet with that face she always got prior to spouting off one of her crazy ideas. Before she had a chance to say anything, he blatantly told her. His dad was dead. It happened earlier that morning.

She didn't say a word. Not a single word. Silently, with wide eyes, she retreated into her bedroom. It took him a moment to realize what she was doing. Following her, Nick watched her untangle her vintage leather suitcase from the closet and begin to open the drawers of the dresser he had built her months ago. She told him she would help him pack when he was done, even though he attempted to reassure her she dind't have to come. Jess fixed him with _that_ look, the kind where he thinks he can hear thunder, and he turned to do as she said just as Schmidt and Winston barreled through the door. Not even an hour went by before all four of them stood in the elevator with their luggage, ready to get a Red Eye back to Illinois. And he and Jess had held hands on the plane. She was scared of planes. He laughed, but he held her hand nonetheless, even when she squeezed it so hard he thought she might have broken a few bones. That one memory floated up from the haze that was their trip, the one thing he held onto even as things seemingly spiralled out of control from there.

As if knowing what is going on inside his skull, Jess reaches over and begins to run a hand through his hair. It's weird at first. He stiffens.

"Relax." She gently commands. It's the same thing he told her on the plane when the nose began to lift and she began to hyperventilate. They're not on a plane anymore though. They're in his childhood bedroom and it's after midnight and tomorrow he's supposed to be planning his father's funeral.

"What are you doing?"

"My mom used to do this for me when I was sick. Just relax, okay?"

"I'm not sick."

"Nicolas." She scolds. He sighs and closes his eyes, allowing her to continue lightly scratching her fingers along his scalp. The repetitive, gentle strokes are pretty calming. Is this why girls like their hair played with? Before he knows it, they're moving closer. She turns up on her side, propping her head up with her free hand and he scoots lower so his temple is resting against her shoulder. Or is that her chest? He wonders if maybe he should readjust, but she resumes her earlier actions without complaint, so he doesn't.

They don't speak, which Nick isn't sure he's thankful for, because now that he's done thinking about Jess, he's thinking about his father again. Walt liked Jess. They didn't have any truly quiet moments in Los Angeles, but while they stood in a darkened parking lot, watching Jess try and drive an F-150 with a horse trailer attached, he pointed towards the cab of the truck and states baldly that he didn't know Nick had such great taste in women. He denied everything, but Walt just shook his head and repeated his earlier phrase. And then he gave him such a knowing look it surprised him into dumbness. It was an honest moment where Nick could have sworn he saw a mixture of pride and regret all over his old man's face.

_You're going to tell me you're not a successful adult when you got Blue Eyes over there? Please._

It would be the last thing Walt would ever say to him.

The morning after, when he met Jess in the kitchen solemnly banging on pipes, and realized that once again, Walt was gone, he didn't feel as bad. He wouldn't deny that it didn't hurt once again being let down by the man, but his words played over and over in his head and he looked into those said Blue Eyes. What was it about this girl that could make things go so wrong and yet so right all at once?

"Why haven't you said anything?" He finally asks.

"I pinky swore I wouldn't."

"Yeah, but I know you want to." He mutters. He thinks he feels her laughing, but he can't be sure. He doesn't want to move and disrupt her touch.

"Not tonight." She repeats herself.

"Does that mean you're going to do it tomorrow?"

"Nope."

"This is killing you, isn't it? Not trying to make me feel better?" Maybe he's projecting. Finally, he sits up, unable to take it any longer. Her features are just barely visible in the dimness. He sees only the dip and curve of her side, steadily rising with her breathing.

"How am I supposed to make you feel better?" The question is said with genuine curiosity. There isn't an ounce of snark or snap in her tone.

"I don't know, by telling me elementary school jokes, or explaining to me how your guinea pig died, or...I don't know." He finished weakly.

"Mr. Foofypants does not compare to your dad, Nick." He thinks maybe saying the guinea pig's name is an attempt for light humor, but there's nothing funny about the way she says it. She sits up as well and he wonders how much of him she can make out.

"You know what I mean."

"I do know what you mean. You're right. I want to burst out into jokes and song and dance more than you could ever imagine." There's his Ah-ha moment. Never one to waste an opportunity, he points a finger towards her and lets a short bark of laughter escape his mouth before clapping his palm over his opened maw.

"I knew it!" He whispers triumphantly.

"But-", She interrupts forcefully, "I'm not going to. I'm not going to try and make you feel better. Okay?" Is that disappointment roiling in his gut? He thinks maybe pinky swearing her to silence might have been a bad idea. At least when she's talking, he's not thinking.

"Okay."

"Tonight, I'm just going to be here for you. Now stop talking."

"I don't know what I'm doing." It just comes out. Like diarrhea. That's what it feels like too. He feels betrayed by his mouth, by his voice, but his brain can do nothing to stop it. "I'm thirty years old, Jess. I've been to like four funerals in my life for people I barely knew. How do I do this?" He flops back onto the bed, the weight of his worry crushing him now that he'd spewed it out into the open air. The El goes by again. He pretends not to notice the way she jumps slightly when everything begins to shake again. Once its passed, the room drops back into its previous lull.

"That's why we're here, Nick. We're here to help you."

"You guys are the same age as me! How do you know what you're doing?" It's in his nature to play Devil's Advocate, and he's not ready to let her simple statement completely reassure him. He's got a point, he just knows it. When she doesn't respond immediately, he sits back up and leans closer, trying to see her face.

"Actually, I, um, I helped plan my grandmother's funeral a couple of years ago." There it is. It was impossible to go an entire day without putting his foot in his mouth at least once.

"Jess-"

"Schmidt, Winston, and I are not going to leave you alone in this. Alright? We will help you and we will deal with this and we will get through this." She doesn't ask to hug him. She slowly scoots over so their knees are touching and she's leaning over with her arms around his shoulders and her head in the crook of his neck and he's never felt so calm and so frenzied at the same time. Tentatively, he raises his arms and puts them around her. It's weird at first. They don't hug often. But the longer it lasts, the more he thinks they should start. She smells good and she's warm, despite complaining about the chill in the air, and she fits inside of his embrace almost perfectly.

"Alright." He breathes into her hair. They stay like that for a few minutes and he's amazed at how comfortable it feels. Nick keeps expecting her to move, but when she doesn't, he takes initiative. Slowly, he bends and lowers them down to the bed until he's hovering just over the top of her. Her body tightens in his grip and he hears her begin to try and formulate the question he doesn't want to answer. He doesn't let her get that far. Deftly rolling to one side, he flips his arms up between them and changes his grip so she's now even more firmly ensconced in his clutches.

"Nick-"

"No more talking for real this time." So they don't. Jess clams up. After a few minutes, she relaxes. She doesn't try to escape. He doesn't let go. The only sound is their shared intakes of breath and the light scratching of the branches on his window.

"Thank you." He whispers into her hair, letting his heavy eyelids close. "For being here."

"Your welcome." She simply responds. It's all he wanted to hear. It's all he needs to hear to stop thinking. His mind slows, his breathing evens out, and he faintly remembers kissing the top of her head before he gives in and goes to sleep.

* * *

What seems like minutes later, he opens his eyes to the sun and the chirping of birds in the brush outside of his window. It's cold in the room and he gropes for his sheets, only to find they're beneath him. His eyes open as he remembers how he finally had gotten to bed, momentarily panicking, wondering if things between them would go back to being awkward in the light of day. He supposes he'll never find out. His arms are empty. Jess is gone. The hollow pit returns in his stomach. Tomorrow has become today and it hits him like a ton of bricks.

An hour or so later, when he's showered and brushed his teeth and dressed, he finds her at the breakfast table with Aunt Rosie. There's a plate of toast and eggs waiting between them and a tray of bacon that looks like it hasn't been touched. For a moment, he stands just out of view, watching her, listening for anything out of place. She's wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, humming to no one in particular, sipping tea.

"Morning." He says with as much cheer as he can muster. Aunt Rosie barely looks up from her food, but Jess jumps with with her signature countenance, perhaps a bit tempered due to the situation, and pulls out the empty chair in front of the smorgasbord.

"Hey Nick. Come on, sit and eat with Rosie and me."

He mutters his thanks and reaches for the bacon before ever sitting down.

"You want some coffee?"

"Sure." And just like that, he's back in the loft and they're in their morning routine. She's making him breakfast (a great breakfast, he thinks as the second piece of bacon goes down better than the first) and there's a newspaper waiting on the kitchen counter, the Sports section already set out so he can find it easily enough. It's comfortingly normal, like a reliable pair of jogging pants. When she returns with his mug, he looks up at her with a grateful smile.

"Thanks."

"Not a problem." She watches him for a moment longer, then turns back to her own section of the paper, the Arts section. Nick is somewhat surprised. The only thing different is Jess herself. By now, she'd be sitting at the stool next to him, jawing on and on about something she read or saw or something crazy that happened to her while cooking. Not this morning. She's quiet and reserved, besides the humming. It's almost unnerving. He's just about to say something when she launches off into the tirade he's expecting. But not to him.

"Rosie, can you believe this guy in Iowa who tried to rob a library? Honestly, who does that? The books are free. It's just such a shame." She continues on about the library thief while he finishes, talking to him but not.

When he's done, he clears his plate, and sees her small smirk when he moves.

"You ready?" She asks when he's done rinsing his plate and silverware.

"Ready?" Nick repeats.

"Yeah. Are you ready?"

He thinks about Walt. He thinks about that night, those words. He thinks about falling asleep with her in his arms like it was no big deal. Any other girl would have slapped him silly by now and left. They'd done it in the past. But this isn't just any other girl. He watches her watching him and sees that smile he's been seeing for almost two years now. He'd like to think Walt is right and he has great taste in women, but he doesn't think it was him at all. It was her.

"Yeah. Let's go."

Today, he's supposed to be planning his father's funeral, and while, he thinks, that thought is still really bothering him, knowing that he's not going to be doing it alone somehow makes it a little less so.

* * *

a/n: Yep, I've been obsessed with this show ever since it came out. I'm worried my season one dvd is wearing out. And now that Nick and Jess, who I have been fawning over since Episode 1, look like they will, eventually get together, and have lots of cute adventures along the way, I'm getting into writing for it. There are five other stories saved on my computer so expect more at some point. N+J forever!


End file.
